I Never Was) Your Biggest Chance.
by Karsa
Summary: Rating for allusions to sex and language (as all my stories are..) It's a sad little ficlet, but I can't say too much, lest I give it all away. Morning after.


(I Never Was) Your Biggest Chance  
  
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I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.   
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story. If you want to use   
them, you'll have to talk to someone else  
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He looked down at the girl next to him in shock. What had he done?  
  
She was beautiful. No doubts about that. Her dark hair sprawled across   
the pillow, smelling faintly of lilacs. He had always imagined her   
hair smelling that way...  
  
Maybe he had taken advantage of her. Everyone had been so fragile at   
the funeral.  
  
They had held on to each other, him disturbingly stoic, her crying   
pitifully. Not one was supposed to die now. They were all immortal,   
despite what they said about diseases. They couldn't die, and yet he   
was gone.   
  
Emotions ran high at the life cafe, after the funeral. They all got   
dunk on shots of hard liquor, before running out on the bill, as they   
were wont to do.  
  
It had been so funny, racing down the streets, it was almost like no   
one had died. She had clung to him, laughing hysterically, and tossing   
her long, lovely hair back and forth, before pulling him into an ally   
and kissing him as the others all raced by.  
  
It was electric. It was heroin. He was addicted to her kiss. Somehow,   
in rapture and lust and somewhat of a drunken haze, they had made it   
back to his bed.  
  
What had happened then, he remembered in bits and pieces. Her nails   
raked down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. The smell of   
lilacs and liquor and the feeling of need. Words spoken in different   
languages, her whispers in French or Spanish or Japanese words   
tickling his mind in the height of passion. It was like a drunken,   
sick movie montage. Did she even remember who he was?  
  
He allowed himself to trace her jaw line with a finger, pushing an   
errant strand of hair back from her mouth. Those lips, that tongue. He   
had never felt like that before, and now he just felt dirty.  
  
He propped himself on an elbow, silencing a groan and the pain of a   
hangover came rushing to his temples. Gods. He made his was out of the   
rooms, picking his boxers up off the floor. Suddenly, he felt modest.  
  
  
The shower was deceptively warm, the comforting water coursing over   
his rough skin. How wrong was this? All he could think of was what to   
say when she got up. "Good morning, have some coffee, we fucked."  
  
Right.  
  
He turned the water off, at least feeling clean on the outside  
  
  
She was awake when he got back to the bedroom, sitting up in bed and   
rubbing her eyes. He checked the gray towel wrapped around his hips,   
his modesty retuning now that she was awake.  
  
He scooped up a t-shirt off the floor, and tossed it at her,   
forgetting to laugh when it draped it's self across her head. She   
covered herself carefully, not moving from the bed. She seemed to be   
in some sort of shock.  
  
"A shower helps," he offered, not moving from the doorway.  
  
"We.. Oh, god," she stumbled over the words, tears forming at the   
corner of her eyes.  
  
"Don't cry. No one needs to know about us. You get dressed and go home   
and we'll pretend this never happened, okay?"  
  
She nodded. "Is he..?"  
  
The man nodded. "He is. We came here after his-"  
  
She choked, turning away. He picked up her pants, draped over a lamp,   
and her bra from the floor. "Here," he told her, handing them to her.   
"We're okay."  
  
She dressed quickly, taking her clothing to the bathroom, while he   
dressed in his room. He was sitting on the table as she turned to   
leave.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, kissing him on the cheek. Then she walked out   
of the loft, pulling the door securely closed behind her.  
  
"Me too," the filmmaker whispered and the Latina's retreating form. "Me   
too."  
  
  
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Ach, I know, Mark/Mimi, I'm sorry. I wrote this Thursday in French,   
the class where I found out about the WTC and the Pentagon. I live   
really close to DC, but I and my loved ones are okay. I hope all of   
you out there are, too. My thoughts are with you.  
  
Thanks to Rachael, my beta baby, and to Adam (mawahahaha) who has been   
so strong for me.  
  
Be well, be safe, and don't be afraid. Together, we are strong.  
  
~Karsa, who has a sign that says "I AM NOT AFRAID, 9-11-01" in her car   
window. Honk and wave. 


End file.
